Thin Air

by George Simpson

  His eyes sprang open and he found himself flattened against transparent wood, his right arm up in the air, clutching what must have been Coogan's wrist; he didn't look to be sure.

  The deck, regaining definition, seemed to pitch and plunge under him. He lay transfixed, palming the wood with his left hand, pressing his cheek hard against it to assure himself of solidity.

  Then he swung his head the other way and looked out at where the square window should have been. Glass, broken and sharded, jutted up outlined in the frame, and beyond he could make out darkness. He shuddered with fear. Had they passed into oblivion? Had he and the Sturman by some fluke of an already monstrous process been hurled into a different dimension, a limbo from which there was no return?

  No. The darkness wasn't as black, wasn't as nightlike as what they had just been through. It was broken by great rounded, drifting lumps...clouds.

  They were outdoors. It was night and those were rain clouds, thunderheads, the kind he had seen that afternoon—in Philadelphia.

  Dimly, Hammond became conscious of a ghastly screaming, which, for a moment, he mistook for an echo in his mind. But it was real and close by. His mind was still fuzzy and the ship wasn't quite solid yet, but somebody was gurgling horrible sounds practically in his ear.

  Who? The guard who had gone mad? No, Hammond could see his unconscious form slumped in a corner. Hammond tried to raise himself and found he needed both hands to do it, but he couldn't pull his right hand free from whatever it was holding. He became aware of a tingling in those fingers, a weight pressing down on his wrist, stiffening his hand, and there was still that awful rasping shriek in his ear.

  His head snapped up and he took in the whole hideous picture in one movement.

  Coogan's mouth was open in a scream, his face blue and bulging as if about to burst, and the howling that tore from his throat was enough to appall the dead. His body wriggled pitifully as it blended in with the aft bulkhead of the bridge. He had stepped back too far and come through the spatial transfer to be embedded in the steel wall.

  Hammond had to force his fingers to release their grip on Coogan. He couldn't understand why it required so much effort, until he looked at his arm: it seemed to be swallowed up where molecules of steel swirled into place around it.

  He couldn't control himself. His head and shoulders were gripped by convulsions of terror as he pulled with all his might to free that hand. Suction tore at his skin and rubbed the top layer right off, until it was raw and welling up blood. But he had the wrist and the meat of the hand free. He gathered his courage for one final pull. It was like trying to pop his hand out of a milk bottle.

  Finally it came, with hardly a sound. He fell back and saw the hole close into place after it. He lay sprawled on the deck, breathless, still quivering from the overpowering pressure—but it was nothing compared to what Coogan was suffering.

  He couldn't tear his eyes away from that huge, bull-like figure protruding from a solid wall, sputtering, coughing blood, his eyes pleading for help, his body convulsing in paroxysms of strain, concentrating every effort into raising one arm—pushing, thrusting it out of solid steel. Constricted, blackened fingers poked through, wiggling.

  Coogan's mouth gaped open, a tortured maw. His lips were distended back into his cheeks, his teeth had clenched so hard he had bitten through the tip of his tongue; his eyes were angled painfully downward at those tiny twitching fingers, as if just getting the hand out would be enough.

  The next scream was his last. It began deep in his throat and rolled upwards to snarl rage and defeat.

  Coogan's protruding belly, one knee, both shoulders, and his head all seemed to jerk upwards in a final frenzied spasm, then the steel closed tightly about his muscles and he sagged.

  His head drooped, the eyes stayed open and staring, reflecting the shock of death.

  Quiet now.

  Except for the distant sounds of water, and metal rubbing against metal.

  And men shouting. Feet trampling on a deck somewhere outside.

  The Sturman's motion subsided as she settled back into her place at the end of the group of destroyer escorts.

  She had come home.

  Hammond stared once more up at Coogan's body, imprisoned permanently into the bulkhead like a gruesome whim of decor.

  Then he rose to his feet. A warning nagged at him, something that cried to be done. His mind raced, trying to think what it was. He dragged himself to the shattered window and looked out, relieved to feel slick mist and cold air sweep across his tortured features once again.

  It was Philadelphia. There were the other DEs. And there was McWilliams.

  The lieutenant leaped across the space from the next DE even before the yardbirds got the Sturman secured once again. He stood warily on the main deck and glanced back at the crowd of men he had brought out; prominent among them were the enormous man with the beard, and the pacing admiral.

  McWilliams gasped as Yablonski rose out of the darkness and hauled McCarthy to his feet. The doctor stared around at the ship, the clouds, the droplets of rain, and the gawking men with spotlights jabbing into his eyes.

  "My God," he said. "My God..."

  Yablonski flung him to the first Marine who jumped across, then sagged to the deck and sat down, exhausted. A huge pair of legs loomed in front of him; he looked up into the bewildered face of John Allen Smith.

  They had never met before. Smitty's eyelids closed in suspicion and he asked, "You're...Yablonski?"

  Cas nodded.

  "Where's Hammond?"

  He pointed up at the bridge and they all saw Hammond standing in the open window. Then they heard him shout a curse, turn on his heel and lunge for the hatch.

  He had remembered it. He had glanced down at the compass and had seen the binnacle light still glowing, the magnetic card deflecting.

  He piled down the ladder and ignored the men up forward, ignored the lights and the commotion, his entire being bent on one final, absolutely essential purpose. He threw himself through the aft hatch and raced down the passageway in total darkness, crashing into bulkheads and open hatchways. He nearly fell down the companionway while fumbling for the ladder; then he dropped down the rungs three at a time. His feet rang on the steel platform as he burst through the last hatch.

  There were no lights. His pupils widened but he could see nothing. He should have called to the men on deck, warned them to get off because the teleporting generator had become erratic and could start itself going any second again and send them all careening forever through time and space.

  His hand throbbed painfully as he fumbled down the last ladder and groped his way between the engines, trying to find the generator. How was he going to turn it off in complete darkness? Where was it? Oh, Christ, where the hell is it?

  Footsteps above, running along the corridors. He hadn't identified himself. What if they thought he was part of McCarthy's gang? What if they didn't stop to ask questions? What if McWilliams hadn't seen it was he who jumped off the bridge and shot aft to that hatch? What if they came in here brandishing M-16s with infrared sights?

  The thousand terrifying fears racing through his brain multiplied the moment he caught sight of that weak red glow up ahead.

  Oh, God, no! It's still on! Where was the generator? He had to find it—

  The hell with it. He made for the glow. There was enough light to see the pedestal dimly. And the footsteps were coming closer, ringing on the metal behind him.

  An ax—he needed an ax. He remembered an emergency cabinet somewhere on this side, behind the pedestal, in the open space between the pump tanks and the oil-drainage sumps. He tripped over the cables in front of the pedestal and reached down. He pulled at them, tugged with all the strength he had remaining. They wouldn't budge. He stumbled a few more steps and groped along the bulkhead. The cabinet—he had it. He ripped the door open and the alarm went off, a great deafening bell which he knew would draw those Marines with their weapons.

  He fum
bled past the extinguisher and felt his fingers close about a handle. He yanked and whirled around. The glow was growing brighter. Was it activating itself or was Bloch activating it from San Pedro? Hammond held the ax in front of his body and felt his way for a full agonizing minute. He reached it; he groped for the cables, then raised the ax and swung with all his might.

  He missed. The blade bit into steel decking. He felt again with the edge, pinpointing the rubber insulation. The glow brightened and suddenly he could see what he was doing, but the humming had started again and vibrations were coursing through his feet.

  He swung once more and this time the blade took a healthy bite out of the cables.

  The lights snapped on abruptly and he was paralyzed in a back-swing, blinded by the glare.

  "Freeze!" someone yelled, and Hammond froze, but only long enough to recover his vision. He glanced around and saw a Marine standing by the generator with a flashlight in one hand and an M-16 in the other; more Marines were piling onto the platform above.

  Hammond pointed the ax at the pedestal to show the Marine. It was glowing fiercely. The Marine was suddenly conscious of the vibration shaking his legs. In his confusion, he dropped his light, made a grab for it with his other hand, and lost the rifle.

  Hammond swung again. Again and again and again, he chopped through those cables until they split open and a hundred strands of wire protruded from each wound.

  The vibrations stopped, the glow diminished, and silence fell.

  "Motherfucker," Hammond whispered, and dropped the ax.

  Hammond arrived back on the main deck flanked by two Marines, Who had no idea who they were hustling around, and didn't care. But Hammond didn't give a damn, either. He wasn't about to waste what little remained of his energy in useless explanations. On the way up the corridor, he had ripped at the tapes holding the wires attached to his arms, pulled the pancake computer off his side, and unstrapped the neck harness. He gave the device to one of the Marines, again without explanation.

  Yablonski was sitting on the deck. McCarthy stood forlornly in the grip of another Marine.

  Smitty and Gault descended from the bridge and came to Hammond, their faces dazed and ashen. McWilliams remained above, staring at the body embedded in the wall.

  "That's the most gruesome thing I've ever seen," said Gault, glancing back as two more Marines lowered the limp form of the guard who had lost his mind. His eyes were glazed; he was muttering gibberish and a line of drool bubbled from the corner of his mouth.

  Hammond shivered.

  "There was another one in the captain's cabin—with a broken neck," said Smitty, looking at Hammond for an explanation.

  "Terminal bad luck." Hammond shrugged.

  Yablonski stripped off his shirt and yanked at the wires taped to his body. When he had unbuckled the neck strap, he tossed the whole thing to Gault.

  "Here's a clever little toy for you," he said.

  "What is it?" Gault asked, turning it over in his hands.

  "It's the device they used to teleport themselves from one place to another," Hammond explained. "And it's manufactured by our friend Mr. F.P. Bloch and the late Dr. Edmond Traben."

  "Late?"

  "Very. I would suggest that you do something right away about pinning down Bloch. We left him at MTL in San Pedro, but if he's wearing one of those goodies, he could be anywhere now—Boston, Tokyo, even his own bathroom in Georgetown."

  Smitty smiled grimly. "It's all right. We're closing in."

  Hammond looked over at McCarthy and said to Gault, "What about Jan and Mrs. Yablonski?"

  McCarthy didn't even flinch.

  "They're all right," said Gault.

  Hammond relaxed. "Hear that, Doctor?" he said. Then he waved his arm at the Sturman. "Traben never got the bugs out, did he? She wasn't supposed to come back to Philadelphia. You're not as close to success as you thought you were."

  McCarthy eyed him sullenly. "There are still the aftereffects, Hammond. How do you know they won't catch up with you?"

  Hammond glanced at Yablonski, who stiffened, then glared at McCarthy with unconcealed hatred. They were squared off, eyes flicking at each other.

  With a sudden lunge, McCarthy made his bid for freedom, yanking his arm away from one Marine, knocking down another, preparing to spring across to the next deck.

  Yablonski kicked the legs out from under him and pounced. McCarthy sprawled on the deck. Yablonski pressed his face down by squeezing the back of his neck.

  McCarthy screamed a reverberating, "NO!" but his plea trailed off into an echo as Yablonski's thumb pressed down on the button and activated the teleporting harness.

  McCarthy blinked out.

  Smitty and Gault shrank back, staring at the empty spot on the deck where McCarthy had been. Yablonski was left clutching at thin air, staring down at his hand.

  There was a long, stunned silence before the Marines began muttering among themselves. Admiral Gault recovered from the shock and whirled to yell instructions about security, warning everybody to keep his mouth shut.

  Hammond pulled Yablonski to his feet and muttered, "You did that deliberately."

  After a moment of grim consideration, Yablonski's eyes met Hammond's. He said softly, "Prove it."

  McWilliams appeared holding Yablonski's jacket and Hammond's holster, which he had retrieved from the captain's cabin. He rocked on his heels between the two of them.

  Hammond gave him a look of genuine gratitude, and said, "Thanks." McWilliams grinned broadly.

  The last thing Hammond would remember about that night would be glancing over to starboard and seeing Smitty and Gault huddled in conference. From then on, during the helicopter ride to Bethesda Naval Hospital and afterwards, Gault did not meet his gaze again. The admiral was avoiding him.

  By the time he was safely tucked into a private room in the security ward, Hammond was positive that another shoe was waiting to drop.

  26

  "Nicky? Are you all right?"

  "Sure. I'm just stuck here in Bethesda for a few days. And I mean stuck. I feel like a pincushion. Yablonski and I have two needle-happy doctors. They visit us six times daily; other than that, we're in isolation."

  "Why?"

  He hesitated on the phone, wanting to keep the conversation light. "What have they told you?"

  "Just that you're both in hospital."

  Hammond shook his head and silently cursed Smitty and Gault. But at least they had assured him that Jan and Mrs. Yablonski were all right, that despite McCarthy's threat, no attempt had been made to penetrate MAGIC. Relieved, Hammond and Yablonski had decided it was all a bluff and, as long as Bloch's organization was being rounded up, no further danger existed.

  Except the danger to themselves from possible after- effects.

  "Nicky?" said Jan again, tentatively.

  "Yeah, I'm here. Listen, I'll probably be out in a couple of days and I'll want to see you...before you go home."

  There was a long silence. Hammond twisted the telephone cord.

  "Don't chase me away so fast."

  He wanted to feel relief, but he was too concerned about something else. "Jan," he said, "I want you to understand why I feel hesitant...about us. I've just been through the same thing that happened to your husband in 1953. There may be residual effects....That's why we're here...under observation."

  He paused for a reply. There was nothing.

  "Jan, I can't saddle you with another Harold Fletcher."

  "What are you talking about?" she said quietly, very much under control.

  "Well, I'm not going to have nightmares, mental problems, but I might have other things...hard to cope with."

  "Like what?"

  "That's what we're trying to find out."

  "Hammond, is this a brush-off?"

  "No!" he protested. "No. I want to see you. I don't want you to go home until I see you."

  "What makes you think I'm so anxious to go home?"

  She was calmer than he was. And mo
re determined, he sensed.

  "You sound like Admiral Gault," she said. "He's been trying to get rid of me, too."

  "What?"

  "He came to us and said you were both at Bethesda, you were okay, but you couldn't be disturbed; and we should wait until you contact us. He wanted to send Mrs. Yablonski back to Cotuit and me back to Los Angeles." Now her voice broke. "Can you imagine what it was like— the two of us sitting here for three days going crazy wondering about you?"

  "I'm sorry," he said. But he was more angry than sorry. Why should Gault deliberately try to put three thousand miles between Hammond and Jan? Only one possible explanation: he didn't want them together.

  "How did you talk him out of it?" he asked.

  "We threatened to yell our heads off." Hammond smiled to himself. "There's something else," she added. "They've brought in another guest. I just got a brief glimpse when he came in; he's been locked up ever since."

  "Who is it?"

  "You remember our host at the party Friday night?"

  Hammond was stunned. "Bloch? Are you sure?"

  "Yes," she said, and her voice dropped. "There's been a parade of strange people going in and out, along with your Admiral Gault and Mr. Smith."

  It was puzzling. Why hadn't they handed Bloch over to the FBI? Certainly, they had enough on him now.

  "Jan, can you sit tight for a few more days? We have a lot to talk about."

  "Yes," she said. "We do."

  When they weren't being tested for after-effects or jabbed full of needles, Hammond and Yablonski made elaborate plans for a fishing trip, to include two cases of beer, Mrs. Yablonski, and Jan. Hammond was in good spirits except at night, when he and Cas both lay awake anticipating the possibility of drifting through a wall or vanishing in their beds....

  On the afternoon following his conversation with Jan, Hammond got a call from Cohen. He had attempted to trace Dr. Kurtnauer in Israel, and until three days ago had been totally unsuccessful. Then Smitty stepped in, brought his full authority to bear. As Cohen explained it, the Navy Department was wildly anxious to speak with Kurtnauer.